


Another Try

by Stories_from_Unicron



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers (Unicron Trilogy)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-08
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-09-30 19:04:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,274
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10169738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stories_from_Unicron/pseuds/Stories_from_Unicron
Summary: Flywheels knows he died horribly.  What he doesn't know is why he's now alive and alone, wandering the ruins of Clemency with no hope of rescue. How did he survive and, more importantly, how is he going to find his way back to the Scavengers?





	1. In this land of make-believe, dead and dry

He wasn't special.

Dead decepticon's were not a rare sight on the planet Clemency. A carpet of their bodies littered the landscape, discarded and forgotten like empty fuel cans. He was one of many.  Most of the soldiers had died in agony, so in that regard, he wasn’t unique either.

Cause of death: Tesaurus of the Deception Justice Division, or spark arrest caused by gross trauma and a shattered brain module.

A worse death than some, but not as painful as others, so, once again, nothing unheard of. Never the less, there were two things that set this fallen soldier apart from the four million others on clemency, the first of which was that he was moving. The second; he was hungry. 

He knelt beside one of the corpses;  fingers shaking from fuel deficiency. He chewed his lower lip,  glancing away as he pried the abdominal panel from the body, exposing the rusted internals to the air.  

“Primus forgive my desecration, please grant your humble servant a blessing…just a mouthful, this I pray…” 

He spoke to himself as he worked. Talking helped; it helped to distract from the stench, from the pain of his fuel tank roiling, trying to purge without a drop of fluid to disgorge. Talking helped him not to think about the diseases he could catch from doing this.  Rust, Nanocons, infections, Energon poisoning, Robot-sepsis… 

For this particular mech, fear had a tendency to dictate his actions; a fear of sickness in particular.    
But right now the his desperation was greater than his fear.

Congealed energon splashed up his wrists as he dug around in the mechs guts, pushing aside cabling and metal tendons to get to the fueltank; a small, oval shaped organ that may just hold enough undigested energon to keep him from starving to death. 

“Please, please forgive me.” He begged, entreating both Primus and the spirit of the mech he was violating. He wrapped his fingers around the tubes securing the fueltank, one at the top, another below, and tugged. There was a moment of resistance. He pulled harder then without warning it broke free. 

He let out a grunt, stumbling. He tried to catch himself, taking a single step back, but he was weak, and ended up tripping over his own over-sized pedes.  

The dead mech landed on his aft . He allowed himself a minute of miserable self-pity, then looked down at his prize. 

The organ sloshed in his hands. It was at least half full. For a moment, his red visor lit up; optics growing brighter with hope.  If the mech had fed an hour before he died, the energon would be fresh enough to re-purpose. He just had to break it open and--- 

He hesitated. 

He’d NEVER been good at this…at the wetwork. Misfire had been the syphonist; carving apart bodies and cracking jokes the entire time; always managing to rummage through the horror and foulness and emerge with something close to a warm meal.  

He wasn't Misfire. He didn’t have the stomach for this sort of thing. 

Closing his eyes,  the mech pressed his thumb against a panel and pushed, popping a hole in the fueltank. 

“With an open spark I give thanks to thee, oh lord of light…” 

With that, he lifted the organ to his lips, pinched his nose shut, and took a drink. 

His throat convulsed, so desperate for fuel that he instinctively took three gulps before he realized his mouth was burning. 

He let out a shriek, throwing the fueltank aside, doubling over. He retched, black sludge pouring down the front of his chest, tears welling in his optics and spilling from beneath his visor. 

Spoilt energon. Poison. Useless.  

He braced one hand beneath him and heaved, biting back a sob. It didn’t make sense! Was this punishment? Had Primus brought him back just so that he’d die of starvation?

“Am I an affront to Primus?” he whispered, “Was I even meant to come back?” 

He pressed his forehead against the cool ground, venting deeply to give his mind and stomach a chance to settle. 

Primus was infallible…if he had meant to die, he wouldn’t have woken up whole and well… 

“…If Primus wanted me offline, I’d be offline.” He concluded; and that meant he had to continue doing his best to survive. 

Sighing, he sat back on his haunches. The mech reached up, fingering his broken comline. 

He'd already attempted to signal his team-mates fifty times.  

He pressed down on the comline and tried for fifty one. 

“…Krok? Spinister?” his chest tightened. “Crankcase? Is anyone reading me? If you can hear this, I’m on Clemency, Co-ordinates 36:24. I’m not dead, and I need help. Pick up; please, please pick up. Guys, I need your help. Misfire? Fulcrum? Please, somebody answer.” 

His comlink was silent except for the steady hum of static and a strange, whistling noise.

Heat stung the back of his optics, and he swallowed a lump in his throat.  

"If any bot is receiving this...my name is Flywheels of Kalis. I'm alive, and I...I can't do this alone." 

He swallowed again, gritting his teeth. He tried to think of a way to end the message on a positive note, the Sacrements of Primus always encouraged positivity. 

All he could do was close his comline with a final-sounding click.

The whistling didn't stop. In fact, it

Flywheels blinked, it almost sounded like---

“TAKE COVER!” He screamed instinctively, diving to the ground. He caught a glimpse of something overhead, falling, burning. 

He clamped his hands over his helm, burying his face in the ground. 

“Primus, spare my sp---AAAAH!”

There was a roar of noise, and a shockwave that sent him tumbling head over heels, rolling to a stop twelve yards from where he’d knelt. 

“Ack-ack-ack…” 

Flywheels shook hard, spitting out a mouthful of dirt. 

His wing was broken. He was sure of it. And one of his legs, probably both of his legs. 

“…..ow…..” 

Carefully, he rolled himself over, flexing his wings. They seemed intact. A cursory examination of his legs revealed a few dents, but no major damage.  He ran a quick systems scan, checked the results, then ran it again. When he was certain that he wasn’t dying; Flywheels pushed himself up; glancing toward the thing that had knocked him down.  His optics followed as wisps of sour-smelling black smoke rose from the resulting crater. After a moments consideration; he crept toward it and peered over the edge. 

Dead decepticon's were not a rare sight on clemency...but he'd NEVER seen anything like this one. 

The  mech's armor was melted and rusting away in several places.  Here and there ugly,  elongated growths sprouted from open wounds.  the corpses jaws were open in a silent shriek, revealing a fanged, lipless maw that protruded slightly, almost like a snout.  

He looked as if he'd died screaming. 

This all disgusted Flywheels, but it was the symbol that had the greatest effect on him. A weathered decepticon sigil on the dead bots nosecone.

The tears that Flywheel's had been holding back began to flow, streams of optics cleanser pouring down his face. He let out a soft, miserable sound. That faded, paint-chippded badge seemed to sum up the hopelessness of his situation. He had no fuel, no comrades, and no chance. He'd die alone, unmourned, surrounded by rotting corpses. Just like this mech.  

"No." Flywheel's glanced around, wiping his optics on the back of his arm. After a few minutes searching, he found a small canister; broken in half but still able to hold liquid. 

He grabbed it, setting it down upright. Then he began to detach his right wrist. 

Flywheels didn't have a lot to spare, but he allowed innermost energon to flow into the container. After a moment, he replaced his hand and lifted the canister. 

The crater wasn't very deep, and he barely stumbled as he made his way to the corpse. 

He didn't want to touch it, it looked infected. But carefully, he set the innermost energon beside the body.   
"May Primus light your path and keep you warm.  I commend you to the Allspark, and the Allspark is one spark, and the one spark is your spark, and in this way we are all connected." 

Flywheels knew there would be no one to give him last rites...but it offered a sliver of comfort to know he could give this unknown comrade a bit of comfort. 

"Go with Primus."  Flywheel's concluded, rising to his feet. He was about to turn away when a glint caught his optics.  

Attached to the corpses hip was an emergency rations pack. Somehow, it had survived the crash. 

Flywheels felt his fueltank clench. Once again he began to chew his lower lip. 

The dead mech was obviously sick...he was covered in tentacle-like tumors. The illness was most likely contagious. 

If he touched the bot; he might catch a disease and die horribly. 

If he didn't find fuel soon, he would go into stasis and absolutely die horribly. 

"…............." 

At least one way, he had a chance at dying with a full fuel tank.  Eagerly, he leaned forward, opening the pack.   
Inside was a box of energon rations in wafer form. As soon as he lifted the box, he could feel that it was full. 

"Blessed be Primus and the Guiding hand. O lord of light I thank you for this gift I most humbly receive---" 

He was just about to take the wafer out when rusted talons closed around his wrist.


	2. Hollow heroes seperate as they run

Flywheels screamed as the smoking corpse began to rise. He twisted and thrashed, trying to wrench himself free.  Briefly, the scavenger debated how long it would take him to chew his arm off and escape.

Flywheels leaned back, whispering quiet words of prayer as the monster reached for him.

“Primus, deliver me from evil, shelter my spark with your holy light–“

The words devolved into terrified mewls, His optics bulging as rust-flecked talons drew close---  
and plucked the ration box from his hand.

Flywheels screamed once or twice more before realizing he was still alive. There was a moment of bewildered silence, then the corpse released it’s grip on his wrist.  
He toppled onto his back with a gunt of pain.

Stunned, Flywheel's stared up at the sky. A few seconds later, a loud crunch snapped him out of his confusion. He sat up, scrambling backwards, eyes locked on the creature.The dead seeker seemed to be staring down at something.  Slowly, it lifted one pale pede, optics dimming as drops of innermost energon dripped from its boot treads.

The thing glanced at Flywheels, helm tilted ever so slightly.

Flywheels grimaced. Maybe if he explained himself, this abomination would consider letting him live.

“I…I thought you were dead. I was scavenging…it’s what I do, I’m a scavenger…” He cleared his throat, “I found you smouldering, and I thought you wouldn’t mind me using your rations.  You can’t take it with you, right?” Flywheels tried to smile.

The thing stared at him, its dull red optics betrayed no emotion.

“but…but it didn’t seem right to just take it so I thought I’d mark your passing with an offering. I’m Primalist, after all. I’m sorry I took your rations, but everything’s fine now, right? You have your energon, you obviously aren’t dead, and we’re both children of Primus, so maybe we can put this misunderstanding behind us?”

The thing took a step toward him.

“Oh, by the Guiding Hand—pleasedon’tkillmeIdon’twantodieagain—“

Flywheels raised his arms to protect his face, tensing up in preparation for a blow.  He stayed this way for a few minutes,  then peeked between his forearms.

The creature had extended a maroon servo to him, palm up.

Slowly, Flywheel’s lowered his arms. He glanced up at the creature, then took it’s hand, letting out a startled gasp as he was tugged to his feet. The seeker had lifted him as though he weighed nothing. Flywheels drew back, fighting the urge to disinfect his hand.

The corpse held out the ration box toward Flywheels.

Instantly, the scavengers optics were drawn to it.  Terror had dulled his appetite, but now it had returned with a vengeance.  His fueltank roared. Flywheels looked at the box, then the monster.  Back down to the box.  “Are…are you giving this to me?”  His mouth began to water, “I can have it?” The corpse didn’t answer. It gave the box a light shake towards him.

Once again, hunger won over fear.

“Thank you,” Flywheels reached for it. “Thank you so much, I—-“

He reached for the box, and just as his fingertips touched it, the corpse let go, dropping the box to the ground.

Flywheels yelped and jolted back, holding his hands to his chest, as if he feared losing them.

“I’m sorry,” He said softly, “I thought you were giving it to me.”

“Take it, Primalist.”

The voice sounded as though the creature spoke through a throatful of shrapnel, but the words were clearly cybertronian.  Not it, then. He.

“I discard it as trash. You’re a scavenger, don't you make use of what's left behind?”

 

Flywheels looked at the creature for a moment.  Without taking his eyes off him, he reached out and picked up the rations box.  Then, unable to put it off; he turned his attention to refueling.

The monster watched as Flywheels stuffed handfuls of energon wafers into his mouth, the scavenger groaning happily with each bite.

Flywheels optics went wide, and he started coughing.

“I-Is this Highgrade?”

“Indeed,” Came the monster’s reply, “My kind require the high energy content in order to function.”

“Your kind?” Flywheels squeaked,   “Th-There’s more of you?”

The creature turned his attention to a communications device in his wrist, prodding at it with a talon.

“Some.” He replied off-handedly, “not many.”

Flywheels chewed his lower lip a moment before subspacing the rations box.

“I’m sorry, that was rude.  I didn’t mean ‘more of you’ in a bad way; you seem very nice.” The scavenger offered, feeling a bit guilty.  

“You fear me.” The creature looked at him. Tongues of flame escaped between his fangs as he spoke, “You are wise to do so.”

Flywheels stared a moment.

“D-doesn’t that hurt you?” He asked, looking at the monster's maw.

“Does what hurt?” The monster looked confused.

“The thing. The fire—N-Nevermind.”

There was an uncomfortable pause, broken only by the quiet tapping of claws on a communicator.

“So…” Flywheels scuffed the ground, fidgeting with his servos. “What brings you to Clemency?”

“I was attacked. I fell.” The monster didn't seem interested in offering any more details.

Flywheel's tried again.

“You're a seeker, right? A Decepticon?”

He pointed to the faint symbol on the thing’s abdomen.

“Once, but that time is behind me.”   came the response. The creature glanced upward, as if scanning the skies.  

“Oh, That’s okay.”  Flywheels stated with nervous cheer, “Doesn’t really matter anymore, does it? After all, the wars over!”  
Once more the thing focused its gaze on him.

“Are you glad for the peace, Primalist?”

Flywheels hesitated, considering the question.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure we won, but even if we didn’t…” The scavenger sighed, glancing at the fallen corpses around them,  
“Even if we lost, at least there won’t be any more Decepticon’s dying in the middle of nowhere. It’s sad, isn’t it? All these years of fighting and most of us will never go home again.”

“Is that what you want?” The creature asked, “To go home?”

Flywheels glanced up sharply, “O-of course I do. But…there’s no way. No functioning ships, no warp gates, no—“

“In thirty four breems a Junkion ship is going to set down at coordinates 36:26. Offer them a few strips of High Grade and they should take you to the nearest trade world. From there, you will be able to work, perhaps gather enough shanix to purchase a ride back to Cybertron.”

“Junkions? Are they friends of yours?”” Flywheels asked.

“No. I've never met them.”

“Then, how could you know---?”

“See for yourself.”  The creature pointed, and Flywheels looked up. Vaguely, he could make out the shape of a trade ship on the horizon.

A trade ship. Rescue.

 

Flywheels trembled, hands shaking as he clasped them together in prayer.

“I sent a distress signal." The seeker explained, "Junkion’s are not fond of outsiders, but they are a compassionate sort. They will help you get home. You should—“  
He was cut off as Flywheels ran toward him.

Ignoring the rust and rot, Flywheels threw his arms around the mech.

“Thank you! Thank  you so much!” He cried out in delight, squeezing him. “May the Guiding Hand smile upon you! May Primus and his eternal light bless you!”

The two of them stood like that a long moment. A bit of metal fell off the corpse,  clanging to the ground.

Flywheels drew in a sharp breath, realizing what he’d done. Screaming internally, he let go and stepped back, helm bowed apologetically.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—“ He knelt, picking up the fallen piece.

“Think...think nothing of it. I must leave now. Chaos keep you, Primalist.” The rusted metal at the corner of the creature’s optics crinkled slightly.  
It took a moment for Flywheels to recognize the strange twist of the creature’s mouth as a smile.

A faint burning smell filled the air, and Flywheel’s gasped as a small, ugly wormhole opened in mid air, twisting and crackling with a strange green energy.  

Without another word, The creature turned and disappeared into the alien-looking spacebridge.

Flywheels gaped a moment, then, glancing down at his hands, rushed forward.

“Wait!” He shouted, waving the piece of metal in the air, “You forgot your—this thing!”

The wormhole closed, a smell of smoke the only sign it had been there.

Flywheels stared after it a moment, once again chewing his lower lip.

He hadn’t even gotten the bot's name.

He looked down at the bit of gold metal in his hands. Some sort of crest.

It almost looked like a face.


	3. Keep your hand in mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flywheels meets up with his rescuer, and learns a bit more about his motives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flywheels predicament in this chapter is based on something that really happens to tourists, especially in Asian countries.

As Flywheel's sat in the center of a dumpster and pondered his life choices he wondered;

Was it something he said?

Flywheels coughed, spitting out a mouthful of garbage. With a grimace he gripped the edge of the trash bin and hoisted himself out. 

He paused a moment to collect himself, hands on his knees. He dry-heaved at the thought of the alien germs he'd been wallowing in. “Primus, forgive my ingratitude. I'm trying to stay positive, really I am...”

But it wasn't fair. Things had been going so well! He and his junkion ship-mates had planned on exploring Pz-Zazz together. They seemed to like him enough, especially   
when he was buying them fuel and spare parts. For a while it felt like being back with the scavengers.

Until he took out that badge...

He'd shown them the gold emblem his rescuer had dropped, hoping they might be able to identify it.

The junkions had taken one look at the gold metal, then dragged Flywheels off their ship, shoving him into the nearest dumpster.

It really meant something when Junkions threw you out.

Flywheels sagged . So much for new friends.

Sighing, he took out the ration box. He had three high grade sticks left, enough for a room and some food.

And hopefully a bath. 

Carefully; he poked his helm out of the alleyway. When no danger made itself known, he shuffled out, hands clasped together.

The city was huge, even by cybertronian standards. Billboards the size of battleships hung off the sides of each building; advertising everything from circuit-speeders to humanoid clothing. Some shops and buildings were squeezed so close together that a hand couldn't fit between them. A city with plenty of signs promoting fine hotels and refueling establishments; any of which would have been very useful to a lost Cybertronian.

Of course, they were all written in Pz-zazzanese, a language Flywheels' couldn't begin to decipher.

His wings drooped as he gazed up at at the adverts, lost in thought.

“Excuse.” A soft, bell-like voice made him jump. He felt a hand on his elbow and he jerked away, turning to defend himself.

A gynoid drew back, looking up at him. She was small and silver and smelled faintly of something sweet and flowery. With her smooth, bare circuitry, she almost resembled a protoform.

“You are Cybertronian?” She asked, her neo-cybex clear but halting.

Flywheels was taken aback. This was the first alien he'd ever met, and he wasn't entirely sure how to go about it.

“Uh, yeah, I'm from Cybertron. Why?”

The Gynoid's pink optics lit up and she smiled warmly, “I am looking for strong, smart cybertronian!”

She took his hand in hers, huggng his arm with a happy electronic sound.

Flywheels blinked, feeling a blush creep into his cheeks.

“I---um...I could help you find one, I suppose...”

“No, no no. You! Please, help me practice Neocybex?” She looked up at him; pleading, “We can share energon and talk! I know place!”

Flywheels glanced away, trying very hard not to think about the set of round, secondary sexual organs pressed against his forearm.

“Listen, I'd like to help, but I'm just a soldier, I'm really not that smart. I'm sure you'd be better with someone else, right?”

He looked back and was alarmed to see her optics welling up with tears.

“H-hey! Don't cry, Please, don't cry...” He hesitated, then set a servo on her back. “Did, um, did you say something about energon?” 

“Yes! We share energon! We chat! I know place! Pleeeeease?”

Flywheels debated a moment. At least there'd be fuel.

“All right, then.” He returned her smile, a bit shyly, “ Lead the way.”

 

A few minutes later; Flywheels found himself standing in front of a four-story brick complex, the building illuminated with garish neon signs. The gynoid insisted this place had the best energon in the galaxy. She had also informed Flywheels that her name was Cand-E, and that she was a university student majoring in Cybertronian sub-cultures.  
Flywheels gaped, staring up at the flashing lights.

“This doesn't really look like an Energon bar...”

“Oh, it is!” Cand-E gripped his servo with both hands. “Best energon! And Rust cakes!”

“Rust cakes? Really?” He vaguely remembered sharing the sweets with his family. Ever since the war started, there had only been energon and energon derivatives.

“Well, if you're sure...” he stepped forward, pushing open the door and stepping inside.

 

A receptionist of some sort glanced at him from her desk. Before Flywheels could manage a greeting, Cand-E was tugging him along toward a curtain.

They passed a pair of heavy-set, badly dented Mechanoids. Each one easily twice Flywheels height and half again as wide. They glowered at him as he walked by.  
Flywheels attention was drawn from them when Cand-E let out a cheerful laugh.

“Sit, sit!” She coaxed, pushing the curtain aside. It led to a small room; equipped only with a table, booth, and a few menus. Flywheels took a seat; frowning at the torn and dingy cushions.

Cand-E sat opposite him and smiled, pushing the menu forward. “Order anything you like!”

Flywheels examined the menu, surprised to find there were no prices.

“Are-Are you sure?”

“I insist!”

The next hour that passed was actually very pleasant. The rustcakes were delicious, and Flywheels found himself enjoying the company nearly as much as the fuel. Cand-E hung on to every word, occasionally touching his hand. His nervousness quickly melted away beneath her ecouraging smile, and he soon found himself waxing nostalgic.

“----So, Misfire used to tease me about my figure-making, but Spinister,? He liked it! One time, he traded me some really good spare optics for one sculpture I did. Honestly, that felt wonderful, to know he liked my work that much.”

“Your friends, they are close?” Cand-E asked. Her chin was perched in one palm as she listened. She used her other hand to trace circles over the back of his servo.

Flywheels shoulders slumped. “No, I was---We got seperated. To be honest, I really miss them. I don't like to talk about it...”

Cand-E gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

“Maybe you will not be lonely tonight.” She murmured, leaning forward.

Flywheels' optics widened. Before he could manage a response, the curtain was brushed aside, and a service drone placed a bill on the table. Flywheels jaw dropped at the number of zeros following the first number.

It fell even lower when Cand-E smiled and pushed the check toward him.

“W-wait; I-I thought we---”

“Is there a problem?” grated a low voice. Flywheels glanced up to see the two mechannoid bruiser towering over them.

He shrank back in his seat. “It-It's just that---”

“What? Are you too good to buy the lady a drink? Is that it?”

“N-no!” Flywheels was ashamed at how his voice squeaked, “But she said---I thought--”

A heavy hand fell onto his shoulder, squeezing it hard enough to leave a dent.

“That's the problem with you cybertronians. You think too much. Are you really going to make this girl foot YOUR bill?”

Flywheels whimpered at the painful grip. Quickly, he took out his remaining energon wafers.

“Here, it's all I have.” He stated as the first mechanoid snatched the box away.

The second mechanoid glowered, arms folded over his chest.

“I think you're lying.” He growled. “Bots' and Cons' never go off-ship without a few hundred shanix.”

“Maybe you're tired.” Suggested the first brute. “Maybe you should buy a room and rest for the night. For the right price, this fine lady might even share it with you.”

Flywheels didn't think he could sink any lower into the sink, but somehow he managed.

“Trust me,” piped up the second mech. “It's money well spent. Cand-E's our best girl.”

“I don't HAVE any money! I'm not lying!” Flywheels tried to stand. “I can prove it! When I lie, I change shape and---OW!”

The grip on his shoulder became tighter; bearing down. His leg muscles strained as he resisted; but he was slowly forced back into the booth.

“You could always work off your bill.”

Eager to end the confrontation, Flywheels nodded in agreement. “I...I could wash dishes.”

The two brutes looked at each other and laughed. The hand on his shoulder slid a little lower.

“Not that kind of work. Not standing up work.” 

.“You're not much to look at, but maybe in the dark---AUGH!”

Rusty talons sank into the thug's wrist. There was a groan of straining metal as his arm was forced up and away from Flywheels.

The scavenger recoiled as a familiar figure placed himself between him and the mechanoids.

“You!” Flywheels exclaimed.

The undead seeker didn't respond. His dim gaze was locked on the thug's optics in a stare-down.

After a few seconds of tension; he spoke.

“I will pay for his room. Place it on my tab, I will settle it shortly.”

The mechanoid scowled.

“you'll get charged extra for fucking up my arm.”

“As you said; Money well spent.”

The thug rubbed his bleeding wrist, then turned and stormed off. His partner mumbled something about room keys before retreatiing back to their post.

Cand-E shrank back as the seeker turned to her She looked up at him, lips curling in disgust.

“Go with them.” Ramjet growled at her, “You'll get nothing from me.”

The femme scowled, then slipped out of the booth, hurrying away.

Flywheels hung his head.  
“This isn't an energon bar, is it?”

The seeker shook him helm.

'.....They scammed me, didn't they?”

The strange mech nodded. His optics dim. “You're not the first to fall for the Brothel trick. Here on Pz-azz they prey on kindness and weakness.”

“Well I'm plenty weak..” Flywheels could hear the misery in his own voice, like a throatful of bad oiil. “I was almost...they almost---”

Flywheels could feel his face panels heating up. The frustration was nearly worse than the embarrassment. He was supposed to be a Decepticon! Not some stupid tourist getting scammed out of his last shanix. Decepticons were strong; conquerors! They stuck together and never let anyone push them around!

Some Decepticon he turned out to be. He wasn't loyal enough to escape the DJD, he wasn't important enough for his team to retrieve; and he wasn't even smart enough to spot when someone was conning him.

All because he was lonely. Stupid and lonely. 

The heat rose to his optics, and he pressed his palms against his face

Don't cry; don't you dare cry. Flywheels told himself, gritting his teeth. He wasn't surprised to find he failed in that venture; too.  
At least his visor hid it.

Mostly.

The undead seeker made a sound; not unlike steam escaping a vent. Flywheels assumed it was a sigh.

“I'm sorry.” The triple-changer whispered, wiping his optics. “I'm sorry...”

“Ramjet.”

Flywheels sniffled, lifting his helm.

“I am Ramjet.” The seeker stated. He flagged down a passing droid; taking a mug of something hot off the tray.

Ramjet took a seat on the other side of the booth. Wordlessly, he pushed the drink toward Flywheels.

“I refueled already..” Flywheels told him.

“Drink.” The reply came out as a growl, but without aggression. “It will calm you.”

Flywheels took the mug, holding it between his palms. He sipped slowly; trying not to slurp. The oil inside was sweet, and sent warmth to his aching spark and processor.

“I can't...I can't pay you back for the room, Ramjet.”

“I did not expect you to.” Ramjet leaned back in his seat, resting his optics.

Flywheels stared into his mug, glanced up.

“Why are you being so nice to me?”

Ramjet was quiet a moment, considering his reply.

“We share a faction.” He said finally.

“Decepticon's don't just...help each other. Not like this.” Flywheels sighed. “Not really.”

Again Ramjet paused. He lifted a hand to his chin.

“If it suits you, consider it a matter of balance, Primalist..”

“Balance?” Flywheels leaned forward a bit, curious.

“Indeed. You gave what little you had when your need was great, and I have more than I could possibly ever need. It is only right that I repay you.”

“But the high grade you gave me was worth way more than a few drops of innermost energon.”

Ramjet rested his elbows onto the table, folding his arms.

“The Balance isn't necessarily about making things equal. It's about making them right.”

“......I don't understand.” Flywheels cupped his drink between his servos. Whatever it was, it was strong. He was starting to feel better.

“.You are the first person to pray over me. I feel that fuel and shelter is the least I can do in return.” Ramjet's optics tilted slightly in a smile.

“It's kind of nice that you appreciate it.” Flywheels lifted the cup for another sip. “Every other con I've met thinks it's funny; my religion. It's not something soldiers talk about.”

“And yet times of war are when faith is forged most strongly.” Ramjet replied, “It was on the battlefield that I discovered mine.”

Flywheels looked up from his liquor. “You're devout, too?”

“I pray nightly, and present offerings twice a week. I have done so for the past eight million years.”

“Eight million----” Flywheels could feel his wings lifting happily, but he couldn't help it. He'd never met another believer before,it seemed too good to be true!

“Do you worship Primus the Progenitor, or Primus the Allspark? Personally, I focus my worship on the aspect of Primus the Preserver, I find the tomes on him to be incredibly comforting. Oh! Or perhaps you worship the Ultimate Warrior? That side of Primus is popular with some Decepticons.” He was babbling, he knew he was babbling. Was it the high grade? “Or maybe you don't worship Primus. The Guiding Hand are all worthy, after all.”

Ramjet set a hand over the faded decepticon sigil on his chest. “I do not worship Primus.”

Flywheels lifted the mug to his mouth one last time, tilting his helm back. His glossa chased the last few sweet drops around the rim. He wiped his mouth, then pushed the cup aside.

“Don't tell me!” He held up a finger. “.....Mortilus.”

Ramjet shook his helm. “No. I do not serve him.”

“Hmm...” Flywheels set an elbow on the table, propping his chin against his palm. There was a bare spot on Ramjet's chest, above the badge. Whiter than the rest of him. It was distracting.

“Solomus? “

“His proverbs are worth minding, but no. Not Solomus.”

“Maybe....Adaptus?” His servo brushed against something soft on the table. Soft and pliant, like rubber padding. Absentmindedly, he tugged at it.

Ramjet jolted, sitting up straight.

“I'm right, aren't I? It's Adaptus!” Flywheels grinned. “It isn't anything to be ashamed of, different bots worship different gods. We're all cybertronians, right?”

He squished the soft thing between his fingers. Springy.

“Y-yes. At our core, we are all cybertronians.” Ramjet replied haltingly.

Flywheels yawned,. “Still, I 'd rather count on Primus.” He glanced down at what he was fondling.

A black lump of flesh rested between his thumb and forefinger, like a dead slug. The organic growth spasmed in his grasp, wriggling from its pointed tip to where it's stump connected to Ramjet's wrist.

Flywheels let out a shriek, bolting backwards. There was a loud clatter as the table fell onto its side.

“Oh, Primus.” Flywheels clamped a hand over his mouth, energon rising in the back of his throat.

The mindless chatter in the room had stopped. All around them bots had turned to stare at the commotion. The curtain had been left open.

Ramjet rose from his seat. Quietly, he knelt, righting the table.

He didn't make eye contact as he returned to the booth.

“Do not fear, Primalist. My corruption is not contagious.”

The sad understanding in his voice hit Flywheels like a big red semi truck.

“I'm sorry, I just....I worry about germs, a lot. It isn't personal.” Flywheels voice faltered. “I'm so sorry.”

Ramjet's claws curled into a loose fist. His tentacles jerked and twitched.

“I do not fault you. You aren't the first to react with horror”

Flywheels reached out, setting his hand over Ramjets servo.

“Why would I be afraid of you? You've been really kind to me. So you have a few battle scars, who doesn't?” He smiled nervously.

Ramjet gently wrapped his talons around Flywheels fingers. After a few seconds the triple-changer's hand stopped trembling.

For a moment, their eyes met. Flywheels startled and he quickly lowered his gaze to Ramjet's chest.

There was that blank spot again. He really should---

Suddenly, Flywheels jolted.

“OH! I almost forgot! Hang on.” he rummaged around in his subspace before taking out a bit of dented gold.

“You dropped this, last time we met.” He pushed it forward.

Ramjet picked it up, turning the metal over in his hands.

“Thank you for returning it to me, Primalist. This emblem is quite precious.” The seeker drew a small welding gun out of a hollow space in his forearm and got to work replacing the badge.

Flywheels watched him work, helm tilted slightly. “What sort of alloy is that? It doesn't seem cybertronian.”

“It isn't. It was given to me by my god.”

“Hm....” Flywheels pondered a bit. “I give up. I can't think of any other gods. Heh, Unless you're a Unicron cultist.”

He meant it as a joke, but he froze when Ramjet smiled at him.

“Wait, you're...you worship Unicron?”

“Indeed. For quite some time. Actually, I am his---Primalist? Are you all right?”

Ramjet blinked in bewilderment as Flywheels optics went dark. A moment later, the triple-changer toppled to the ground in a dead faint.


	4. Show me How defenseless you really are

“Hey, do you see room fourteen-eight anywhere?” 

The question sounded too loud in the dingy hallway and Flywheels regretted breaking the quiet almost immediately.

Ramjet glanced up at him before returning his attention to his own room key. 

“It should be further ahead.” He responded. 

The hallway lapsed into silence once more; the quiet broken only by Ramjet's rasping breaths. Flywheels squinted at at the room numbers as they passed. 1408. 1408....“So....Herald of Unicron, huh?” He tried again, forcing a smile into his voice.

“For many eons now.”

“How...ah, How is that working out?”

Ramjet paused long enough to give Flywheels a look.

“......As well as can be expected.”

“Oh, that's nice. Good on you. So, when---oof!” 

Flywheels grunted as he ran face first into the Seeker's thrusters. Ramjet had stopped short, staring at one of the doors. Flywheels backed away quickly.

“I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to touch anything. Oh! Is that my room?” 

The placard was crooked; and there was a bullet hole above the eight, but the number was clear.

“Oh, Praise Primus. Ramjet, thank you so much. I can't remember the last time I slept in a berth.”

Ramjet made no move to step aside. He was frowning sharply, optics narrowed in thought.

Flywheels shifted a bit.

“Yeah. Well, it's getting late, and I 'm sure we could both really use the recharge so....”

He inched past Ramjet, murmuring apologies.

“Excuse me, just gonna---scootch a bit----there we go.”

Flywheels opened the door, giving Ramjet a nervous smile.

“Thanks again. G'night.” He slipped into the room and, as politely as he could, closed the door in Ramjet's face.

1408 was much tidier than Flywheels expected. A large bed in the center of the room, the headboard pressed up against one wall, an ugly painting of fruit above it. Beside the bed, a three-legged table, straining under the weight of a mini-fridge covered in Pz-zazzanese writing. His attention was drawn to the far wall, which was completely dominated by a black curtain. Curious, Flywheels stepped forward and drew it back.

“Oh!” To his delight, a sliding glass door was revealed, leading out onto a balcony.

He smiled and unfastened the lock, stepping out into the chill air. Above the grime and smoke, the city lights were bright, stretching out as far as he could see. Flywheels smiled, resting his elbows on the balcony for a moment. He wouldn't mind enjoying the view a bit more, but recharge was calling him.  
With a sigh, he slipped back into the room, locking the windows, then double checking to be sure he'd locked them properly.   
His smile became a grin, and with a happy rumble of his engines, he fell onto the bed.

“Ooooh blessed Primus yes.” He groaned into the overstuffed pillows, wriggling a bit. He felt like he could sleep for days. His optics flickered as he snuggled into the bedding. A second later he was snoring.

There was a knock at the door.

“Mmmnnnng.” Flywheels pressed his face deeper into the bedding.

A second knock, more tentative.

“Fine....” With monumental effort, he dragged himself out of bed, shuffling to the door and opening it a crack. 

“Yes? Oh! Ramjet.”

The unicronian stood in the doorway, looking like he hadn't moved. He lifted his own roomkey. 

1408.

“There seems to have been a misunderstanding. We were given the same room.” Ramjet said quietly.

“Oh. W-want me to go down and fix it?” Flywheels offered. 

Ramjet shook his helm. “The front desk is closed.”

“I-I see.” Flywheels held the door open for him, standing aside. “Looks like we're suite-mates for the night.” 

Honestly, Flywheels had expected something like this. Decepticons never helped each other for free.

Ramjet brushed past him, his footsteps falling heavily as examined the room.

Flywheels tilted his helm a bit, staring at the Unicronian's back. Rear-mounted shoulder thrusters. A thin, waspish waist. Broad hips. It wasn't as badly scarred as the rest of him. 

Flywheels lifted a hand to his face, nibbling his knuckle nervously.

Was he okay with this? With a Unicronian?

No, no, of course he wasn't okay with this.

He watched as Ramjet bent forward to straighten the painting above the bed. He felt his optics roaming down.

Maybe he was okay with this? How long had it been since he'd fallen asleep beside someone?

Being held would be nice, if only for a few minutes. He wasn't sure he wanted to interface with someone he barely knew, but...it made sense. Ramjet did something for him and now he wanted something in return.

Flywheels crossed his arms over his chest, glancing away as Ramjet turned to him.

“So...” Flywheels shifted, scuffing the ground with one pede. “There's only one berth.”

“It would appear that way, yes.” Ramjet replied.

Flywheels hugged himself as he walked over to the bed, trying hard not to look at Ramjet's deformities. He climbed in, resting his back against the headboard.

“C-care to join me?” He extended a hand to him.

Ramjet stared, his optics growing brighter. He took a step toward the bed then paused. Flywheels smiled timidly, letting his legs fall apart. He could hear Ramjet's breath rasping more quickly. He seemed to be---

Was he sniffing the air?

Oh, Primus give him strength.

“Go on, It's okay, really. I do this all the time.” Before the words finished forming, Flywheels realized his mistake. He had a brief warning as his T-cog tingled, then he jolted forward, folding into his tank alt.

Ramjet jolted, taking a step back. He watched as Flywheels squirmed a bit before returning to robot mode. 

“You were serious, when you told the bouncers you Transform whenever you tell a lie. How strange.” Ramjet murmured, bemused. Flywheels was on all fours facing him, helm down to hide his blush.

“It-It's a medical condition. Enough about that, are---are we going to-to---you know, the thing?” Flywheels gripped the bedspread, glancing up. 

“The thing.” Ramjet repeated flatly.

“Yeah, the thing, you know, with the---you know!”

“Do you want to interface with me, Primalist?”

“Don't call me that, I don't want to think about my religion right now. Look, I know it isn't much, but it's all I've got to offer, so...” Flywheels sat back on his haunches. “Do you want to?”

Ramjet took a seat on the edge of the bed, his claws resting on his knees. He drummed his fingers, as if debating how to answer. His jaw hinge creaked a bit when he finally spoke.

“Do YOU want to, Primalist?”

Flywheels hesitated.

“S-sure?” 

He toppled backwards into Jet mode.

“Not a tank this time?” There was no reproach in Ramjet's voice.

“Triple changer.” Flywheels whispered, barely above a squeak. 

Ramjet nodded, grabbing a pillow off the bed.

“Ramjet, Listen,” Flywheels scrambled back to robot mode, grabbing Ramjet's arm. “I don't want to interface with you, but it's not for reasons you think! It's because we, well, we hardly know each other, and I'm sort of old fashioned. Maybe tomorrow I'll feel more comfortable, we could try again.”

Ramjet smiled crookedly. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I do not think you will ever be comfortable with me. I have had eons to accustom myself to this form, and I am not yet comfortable. Besides, we do not need to share pleasure to be friends.”

“Friends?” Flywheels sat up in bed.

“If you would like, if I do not repulse you.”

“No! You don't repulse me---not completely!” He stated, glaring in the general direction of his transformation cog. “To be honest, you seem like a really decent mech, even without all the presents. I wouldn't mind having you as a friend. Oh, excuse me.” Flywheels lifted a hand, trying to stifle a yawn. 

“It is late, we both need rest.” Ramjet settled onto the floor, placing the pillow down. 

“Hey, you can sleep on the berth with me. I don't mind sharing.” Flywheels offered.

“It's fine, Primalist.”

“I could sleep on the floor, and you could have the berth.”

“I am comfortable, thank you.”

“At least take the blanket? Please? I feel bad.”

“All right.”

Flywheels handed the blanket over, and Ramjet quickly wrapped himself in in, using his hands and tentacles to fold the corners down around his wings. Flywheels smile, settling back into the berth.

“Good night, Ramjet.”

“Good night, Primalist.”

Flywheels didn't remember a lot about his caretakers. He couldn't quite recall what they turned into, or what faction they were. He could vaguely picture dent-pocked face panels, and deep laugh lines, but other than that, he wasn't sure what they looked like.

What he DID remember was their oft-repeated words of wisdom

“Life's not fair.”

When Flywheels' Carrier knelt in a dirty alley, welding one of his injuries shut with a jury-rigged solvent gun; “Life's not fair.”  
When some syphonists beat his sire and forced them out of their hovel; “Life's not fair.”  
When he protested that he was the only one refueling because their wasn't enough energon for the three of them; “Life's not fair; and it'll only get crueler as you age, Flywheels.”  
And as life served him sucker-punch after undeserved sucker-punch; Flywheels eventually had to admit that his parents had been right. Losing Battletrap wasn't fair. Having to grin while processing prisoners at Grindcore wasn't fair. Being abandoned by his squadron after years of loyalty wasn't fair.

As his caretakers said, life wasn't fair. If anything, life was very cruel.

And because it was cruel; he was dreaming of teeth again.

He was falling. He hated falling. Unlike other fliers, he found no pleasure in the fuel-tank churning topsy-turveyness of it. He'd much rather be on the ground. But, he wasn't on the ground, he was falling.

No, not falling, he was being turned over.

“Come inside, Flywheels!” The voice cajoled. It was a nice voice, a friendly voice. The voice of someone you'd want to refuel with. But the person wasn't nice, and it wasn't his friend.

Not legs first, please, not legs first, not slow.

Primus, please, not this! He repented! The smelting pits, the frag grenades, the prisoners of war, he was sorry! He was! He deserved to be punished, but anything but this!

“Stop struggling and come inside, Flywheels!”

He was falling, falling into that sucking, screaming mouth. There was a moment of tingling weightlessness, and then he was falling again.  
He hated falling. Unlike other fliers, he found no pleasure in---

NO!

It was a dream! The same damn dream! He didn't have to go through it again, he just had to wake up. Just open his eyes and wake up.

Flywheels thrashed, clawing the air. 

Wake up!

His hand connected with something solid and he clawed it, fingers sparking as he grabbed onto his handhold. 

Whatever he was clutching grabbed him back.

“Come inside, Flywheels!”

He was being pulled by the arm; away from the teeth, away from the pain.

“Strop struggling and come inside, Primalist!”

Primalist?

“PRIMALIST!”

Flywheels thrashed, hurling himself out of the dream and nearly out of his recharge berth. 

He was yanked back a moment before he could strike the ground. He was being lifted, pressed against a blue and white cockpit. 

“Primus----spark, Primus spare my spark---”Flywheels wouldn't let go of his handhold. He couldn't. He might die again. 

He pressed his face against the warmth, shutting his optics tightly.

Arms slid around him, a rasping voice doing its best to sound reassuring.

“I won't let go. You may cling as long as you like, I have you, Primalist. I have you.”

Ramjet's chest was riddled with heat scars and flecks of that strange organic growth, but Flywheels stayed there for\several minutes; even after one of the tentacles gave his face a reassuring pat.

“I'm-I'm okay.” He finally mumbled, drawing back. “I'm okay, I—I can't unclench my hand.”

He tugged, but his fingers were locked around Ramjet's claws, each tendon and circuit on edge.

“Just relax. Use your cooling vents.” Ramjet suggested. “Breathe.”

“I'm breathing! I'm breathing.” Flywheels sighed, falling silent.

“How long ago?” asked Ramjet.

“Hm? How long ago what?”

“How long ago did you die?”


	5. Wise Men Wonder while Strong Men Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This Chapter contains adult humor and references

Flywheels never imagined water could feel so damn good.

It wasn't oil, or cleaning grease, or lubricant, just scalding hot water pouring down on him in a steady spray. Weeks of grime sloughed off his armor, swirling around his feet before vanishing down a small drain. It was only water but it was absolute bliss.  
The hot water ran out before Flywheels was done, but by then he'd been scrubbing for hours, and felt his sanitation was finally at an acceptable level. He turned the nozzle, watching as the water stopped.

A single-person wash barrack. Ramjet had called it a shower. Flywheels called it physical proof of Primus love.  
Flywheels stepped out onto the off-color tile. As he grabbed a handful of towels, it occurred to him that he couldn't remember the last time he'd felt this good. He'd told Ramjet almost everything; finding fulcrum, recieving the message from Tarn, finding Grimlock, even Tesarus. 

Tesarus.

It only hurt for a second. Honestly, the being gripped too tightly had been worse than the brief, intense sting of blades. Still, it was a difficult memory to share. Ramjet had been a surprisingly good listener, so Flywheels told him everything.

Everything except meeting Primus.

In spite of the steam filling the room, Flywheels shivered. He wrapped himself in towels until he felt warm again, then pushed open the door.

"Hey, Ramjet, is there anything to--" Flywheels balked. "Are you ok?" 

Ramjet was sitting cross legged on the floor, the bedspread wound tightly around his helm. The herald was breathing oddly, his chest rising and falling with short, snuffling sounds. Flywheels retreated a few steps, debating whether or not he should give him some privacy. 

Ramjet pulled the blanket off his helm, letting it rest in his lap. He growled quietly, rubbing his forehelm with one hand. 

"Do you need me to; er, should I leave you alone?" Flywheels stammered.

"No. I was not doing anything untoward." Ramjet replied. "I was merely trying to drown out your scent." 

Flywheels spent a few seconds trying to think of a way to respond to that. He lifted his arm to his face, sniffing the plating. "I don't smell anything, but I could take another shower if you'd like, I was rather manky."

Ramjet shook his helm, pushing himself to his feet. "You misunderstand. You do not smell badly to me." He lifted a hand palm up. Slowly, he wrapped his claws around a fistful of bedding.

"When I fondle this cloth, I know only that it has give. When I touch the edge of a blade, the pain is distant." 

"Fondle?" 

"When I taste energon and flesh, it must be salted, or spiced. I can feel it between my teeth, but there is very little flavor. My optics can detect vital points on an enemy miles away, but small lettering makes my helm ache. My corruption dulled my senses. Everything except how I hear, and my sense of smell. My olfactory sensors are many times stronger than a predacons, and after the offer you made earlier, your aroma is intoxicating."  
Flywheels walked over to the bed, sitting down. "That is really weird. But it's nice of you to say, I think? It doesn't even look like you have a nose. Is the smelling a unicronian thing?"

"Indeed." Ramjet rasped. He would've sounded frightening if it wasn't for his proud smile. He seemed delighted to discuss the benefits of being a Unicron worshiper. "It aides us in conquest. We can tell how healthy our comrades are, how the weather may change, or if a foe is afraid."

"Wow." Flywheels shrugged the towels off and began folding them. "All that, just from smelling?" His brow furrowed. "Do I smell healthy? Am I sick?"

Ramjet leaned in a bit closer, taking a small breath. He considered, then said; "You are malnourished, Primalist. Other than that, you are in excellent health. The paint you're wearing is from Elba, The drinks we shared earlier slightly over-energized you and you will need to change your oil in a few days." 

"You're right. I did a stint in Garrus 9, that was the last time I was painted. What ELSE can you tell?" Flywheels was gawping. He knew he was, he couldn't help it. "Hey, is it ok if I grab a drink from that mini-fridge? I don't want to if you'll have to pay for it."

"By all means. It is complimentary." Ramjet glanced down at the blanket in his lap, his smile fading. After a moment, he continued.

"You're spark type is Vitreous Positive. You were forged. You've never been ignited."

"That-" flywheels forgot the minifridge. He hugged himself a moment, drawing his knees to his chest. He went silent.

"Primalist?" Ramjet looked at him. "Please, speak your mind."

"I don't know what ignited means, but the rest; That's just...really personal information. Not even Battletrap knew that stuff. I guess its fine but I don't like that you just know. I mean, you're not doing it on purpose, so I shouldn't feel upset. I'm sorry." Flywheels sighed, stretching back out. "It must be hard, not being able to feel things."

"I can feel." Ramjet fidgeted with his claws, tapping them together. "I simply make use of other appendages."

"Appendages?" Flywheels optics widened. He snapped his fingers. "Downstairs, that thing I touched, that's how you feel! Oh, Primus, did I hurt you?" 

"No, no. My tentacles are sensitive, but they are durable. It felt pleasant. Do not fear." Ramjet looked away, optics dimming. "Please, enjoy a drink."

Flywheels leaned forward, opening the minifridge. It was filled with a strange assortment of alien offerings. a vaguely triangular object resting on a mushroom shaped base, a string of colorful circles, a U shaped thing with bulbs on either end. Everything was wrapped in plastic packaging, and labeled in Pz-zazzanese. The only thing with Cybertronian writing was a metal can, tucked into the back of the fridge. Flywheels grabbed it, turning the can over.

"They mis-spelled rocket." He mumbled. He eyed the drink dubiously, but no other fuel on this planet had made him sick, and he was pretty thirsty.  
Flywheels gripped the pull-tab on the top and gave it a tug. There was a sound like a gunshot, and suddenly, an electric blue seeker appeared in front of Flywheels.

He screamed as the newcomer fell upon him, optics dead and cruel, mouth open wide.

"Warper!" Flywheels squealed, shoving at his attacker, "Warper! It's a warper!" 

Ramjet moved like a flash, he lifted a hand to his right wing and wrenched it from his body. It became a sword, and with a roar he swung it; striking the seeker with the flat of his blade.

The seeker floated slowly to the ground and lay still.

Ramjet and Flywheels stared at it, pistons tensed. After a moment, Ramjet prodded it with his blade.

"What the frag?" Flywheels squeaked shaking violently. 

"Primalist, may I see that can?" Ramjet extended his hand, and Flywheels passed it to him.

"Rockette Fuel." Ramjet read aloud. "Deployable, disposable Cybertronian companion. Wash before discarding."

Flywheels covered his mouth with both hands. "It's a, it's a---"

"An inflatable doll." Ramjet finished, reaching down to lift it up. "This is, after all a brothel." 

Flywheels skittered back a few steps. "Don't bring that near me! I don't want to touch it! Go wash your hands!"

"It is unused." Ramjet protested, "You have nothing to fear." He took an unconcious step toward him. 

"Disgusting! Throw it away!" Flywheels waved his hands around frantically, but the shock was wearing off. He started laughing. "Ramjet, it's shaped like you!"

Ramjet blinked, his optics flickering like candle flames. He examined the doll. "I do not see how so."

"Of course you do! Look! It's got the shoulder thrusters, and the side wings, even the cockpit chest! It's just a little smaller. Ew, no! don't hand it to me!" Flywheels batted it away, and the doll drifted free from Ramjet's grasp, floating onto the bed.

Ramjet knelt, grabbing the blanket and tossing it over the doll to hide it from sight. "My frame type is outdated. I imagine that device has been in there for quite some time." 

"It's not outdated." Flywheels argued. He felt bad for teasing him about the resemblance. "It's chic."

"Nonsense."

"No really, aside from the...the everything else, you look great. The headfin? LOVE the headfin. It's like a really sleek version of the retro cone-helm design, and the shoulder swords? Classic! They don't make shoulder swords anymore. Back before the war, only the upper crust got to carry swords. Is it warm in here?"

"Let's step onto the balcony." Ramjet offered, "The air is not fresh, but it is cool." Ramjet pushed the curtain aside, then pried the door open, holding it for Flywheels. "Thank you." Flywheels mumured. Absently, he walked toward the center of the room, turning the lamp off, then, with Ramjet close behind, he stepped onto the balcony.

The air was dry and filled with smog, but the night was cold and refreshing. Flywheels smiled, leaning against the railing. He watched the bustle of the nightlife below. Robots and organics rushing here and there, doing things, living lives without a war. 

"It's kind of hard to believe, isn't it? Cybertron used to have cities like this, crowds of people. A skyline. Were you around for that?" Flywheels rested his elbows on the railing, leaning forward. 

Ramjet rumbled quietly. "Cybertron has not been my home for quite some time. Perhaps one day I will return, but for now, I feel I have no place there."

"Maybe someday, but there's no pressure. Take your time." Flywheels reassured him.

Ramjet's mouth crooked a bit. "That is what you said before the shower."

"Well, yeah. I told you how I died, then you said you weren't ready to talk about how you died. Assuming we keep in touch after tomorrow. You can tell me when you're ready, or never. Never's fine too. Don't worry about it, like I said, take your time."

"I would like that." Ramjet announced, 'To keep in touch' I would not want to lose track of such a singularity. You are an extraordinary decepticon, Primalist." 

Flywheels flushed, rubbing the back of his helm nervously. "Other than the two alt-modes I'm nothing special."

"Nonsense. You are conscientious. Moreso, you are kind. There is nothing in this reality rarer than Kindness." Ramjet turned to face him. "Do not assume you are weak because you are not like others. If you were like other decepticons, you would have died a second time and we would not have become friends."

Flywheels had no idea how to reply to that. Compliments were few and far between in his experience, and he was overwhelmed to receive so many at once. So, he said nothing. Instead, he smiled and leaned against the railing. Ramjet stood still, looking thoughtful.

The silence stretched between them, but now it didn't seem so uncomfortable. 

After a few moments Ramjet cleared his throat. He glanced at Flywheels, and opened his mouth to say something. Before he could, a loud pop made both of them tense.  
There was a low whimper of escaping air, and as the two watched through the window, a silhouetted figure yanked something heavy and sharp out of the ramjet-shaped doll on the bed. 

Ramjet drew his wing swords, pressing himself toward a portion of the wall away from the window. ::Comlines, primalist. They haven't located us yet.::

"Spread out!" hissed a voice in garbled cybertronian, "Find the demon and his whore!"

::They!?:: Flywheels squeaked, squeezing close to Ramjet's side.

::Spawn Slayers. Zealots who think they can thwart my masters will by killing his harbingers. They are sorely mistaken.::

More dark shapes slipped into the room, hissing back and forth in strange accents.

"The Herald isn't in the massage room."

"Or the sauna."

"No sign of Flywheels either." The last voice was spoke in perfect Cybertronian. A familiar voice.

Flywheels cycled rapidly through optic settings, trying to get better visibility through the dark. Finally, he managed a clear view of the room. And of who was in the room. And what they were holding.

::Ramjet we need to fly.:: Flywheels stepped back, toward the balcony, ::we need to go now!::

::Flee, Primalist.:: Ramjet growled. ::I will find you after I slaughter these apostates.::

::Ramjet, you can't fight them!:: Flywheels grabbed his shoulder, ::We have to run!::

Ramjet's lips parted. Two upper front fangs were longer than the rest of his small, saw-blade like teeth. They curved inward, small, brackish flames licking at the edges from deep in his gullet. 

He snarled, silent.

Flywheels bit back a whimper, but he didn't let go.

Ramjet's optics blazed, glaring at Flywheels hand. He took a breath and his gaze softened, just a fraction.

::My friend, I will not let them hurt you. Besides, we are in luck. they've mistaken you for someone named Flywheels.:: 

::I'M Flywheels! They have---:: Flywheels caught movement in the corner of his optics. He froze, for two seconds. It'd taken his last friend, Battletrap, fifteen seconds to die.

At four seconds, Ramjet began to pull away and step toward the glass door.

Five seconds; one of the spawn slayers inside lifted their head. 

Seven; Flywheels saw the slayer lift a weapon.

Eight: Ramjet began to charge forward. 

Eleven, Flywheels wrapped his arms around Ramjet's waist, picked him up, turned, 

Fourteen; He ran toward the edge of the balcony, and threw him off. 

At fifteen seconds, a shot from an ion blaster caught Flywheels in the back. 

He fell.


End file.
